“Then the ghost must have.”
“But he was too weak to leave his pallet. I left no firerock and iron to strike a spark.”
Uustass drew his belt knife; the one he used to free young sheep from brambles and cut lengths of rope for various chores around the village. Sharp enough to slice through tree limbs the width of his wrist.
A measure of confidence returned. Whoever had invaded the sanctuary of the ancient monastery must respect her brother’s strength and purpose.
Cautiously, Uustass pushed the door open. Rusted hinges creaked. He stood back, peering inward, waiting for an attack.
The fine hairs on Vareena’s neck stood up. From the safety of the steps she inspected the small visible portion of the narrow cell. She saw only the slack figure of her ghost, fully formed in this reality, his arms neatly crossed on his chest, legs crossed at the ankles and shiny gold coins holding down his eyelids. She doubted he had composed himself so peacefully before experiencing his death throes.
“I only see the body,” Uustass said, sheathing his knife. “Just like the other times. Once they’ve died, they are visible to normal people.”
“Wait!” Vareena whispered frantically. “There, to the right. Something moved.” Her hand went to her throat as she swallowed back a lump of fear. It lodged in her upper chest, constricting her breathing.
“I don’t see anything.” Uustass shrugged as he stepped into the room. His hands remained at his sides, not reaching for the tempting gold.
“Watch out!” Vareena rushed to her brother’s side. She placed herself defiantly between him and the two figures who stood beside the pallet. Suddenly the narrow cell seemed far too crowded.
Two ghosts stared at her in surprise, one tall and broad, the other slighter. The shorter one stared at her from pale eyes that seemed to burn through to her soul, his mouth agape.
As she watched, he faded in and out of her vision, one moment fully formed in this reality, the next heartbeat a pale outline of a human figure that distorted light.
The taller and darker figure seemed a trifle more solid. He kept his hand on the other’s shoulder. They belonged together. Both wore magician-blue tunics and carried long staffs that had become as ghostly as they.
Neither had been a ghost long.
“Two of you?”
“What!” Uustass whirled and faced the door. “Where?”
“Over here.” Vareena pointed. “We lost one ghost only to add two more. Both young and healthy. I’ve never seen two ghosts at the same time before.”
“Wonderful.” Sarcasm dripped from Uustass’ voice as he continued to scan the room. His eyes slid away from the two ghosts as if something blocked his mind from settling on that direction. “Now we’ve got to dip deeper into our dwindling stores to feed two of them. They’ll linger for years before they waste away.”
“I’ll never be free of this place now,” Vareena moaned to herself.
CHAPTER 8
“Look at her, Robb. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen!” Marcus held his breath, almost afraid the woman with the crystalline aura would fade before his eyes, like a dragon slipping through the mist. The man with her seemed less substantial, as if he lingered half in the void—sort of like the dead man before he’d gasped his last and emerged from the void.
“Didn’t you hear her, Marcus?” Robb asked angrily.
Marcus yanked his concentration away from the slight beauty with blue eyes so vivid they reminded him of Brevelan—Senior Magician Jaylor’s witch wife. But this woman had blonde hair that kinked and curled in a bright cloud of silver and gold rather than Brevelan’s witch-red.
She was a few years older than he was. Her maturity made her much more beautiful than any woman he could remember.
The ghostly man with her, older by almost a decade he guessed, looked enough like her to be her brother rather than a lover. His protective stance with the knife when he first thrust open the door suggested a family relationship, too.
“I wasn’t listening. She’s so very beautiful, she makes my heart ache. What did you say?” Something important was happening, and Marcus couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t think. He wanted to go drifting in the void forever with this woman.
“She said that we are ghosts and we will linger as ghosts for a long, long time.” Robb’s fingers on Marcus’ shoulders squeezed painfully tight.
“Ghosts! We can’t be ghosts. We’re alive. I see you and this room very clearly, I hear the wind and the rain outside, I feel pain where you are bruising my shoulder.”
Robb removed his hand, shaking out some of the tension.
Only then did Marcus realize his friend held one of the gold coins in his left hand, rubbing it absently, just as Marcus did with the coins he’d slipped into his pocket.
“Those two are the ghosts,” Marcus continued. “They look like dragons, sort of here, sort of in the void.”
“Something strange is going on here, Marcus. Something that will delay us a long time from completing our quest and returning to the Commune with the dragons.”
“Maybe these people are kin to dragons. Maybe we can gather dragon magic from them,” Marcus suggested, his natural optimism replacing the tiny tingles of fear Robb had planted in his mind.
He took three deep breaths, triggering a light trance. Then he stood with his arms to his sides, palms out, feet braced, eyes closed, and opened himself to the energies swirling through the universe.
Robb did the same.
Nothing filled the empty place above his belly and behind his heart where he stored dragon magic.
Robb shook his head.
“They aren’t dragons,” Marcus admitted.
“This isn’t the end of the quest, Marcus. But I fear it is a long and dangerous side trip away from our true mission.”
“Not necessarily. We’ll just walk out of here. The rain and wind are letting up. We’ll find shelter somewhere else. These folks can bury the old man. They probably know his name at least.” Resolutely, he stepped around the beautiful woman and her elusive protector. He marched across the courtyard with Robb in his wake. The ghostly pair followed, the woman directing, her companion darting blank looks in every corner.
They entered the tunnel beneath the gatehouse and pushed open the wooden doors.
Two more steps and they would be free of this eerie old building where darkness seemed to gather. Two more steps to return to their quest.
At the exit through the massive monastery walls, Marcus hit a solid wall of resistance—like running into a magician with incredibly strong armor.
He bounced back into Robb. His friend caught him. Without a word Robb stepped around Marcus and extended his hands to test the blockage.
Marcus jabbed the barrier with his staff. It passed through easily. “I don’t sense anything.” He tried again to step through the doorway into the outside world. Once more he slammed up against a barrier.
Robb tried and bounced back as well.
“Looks like your luck has finally run out, Marcus. And I don’t have a plan. We’re trapped.”
Forces are moving against me. I sense the presence of people who will rob me of my power. But I am not the barely talented clerk I was in my youth. I have true power now. I know how to stop my enemies. I am in touch with all four of the elements as none of these modern magicians can hope to be. A little pressure here, a tug against the elements there and we have a kardiaquake. That should delay those who come for me.
Robb stalked around the perimeter of Hanassa. He knew he’d never been here. Couldn’t remember traveling to this remote corner of the world.
It’s only a dream, part of him whispered. But the heat of the desert sun, the sour taste of thirst, and the heavy grit that irritated his eyes were too tangible to be merely a dream.
He swallowed heavily, hoping to ease some of the dryness in his throat. Not enough saliva. Not enough strength.
The heavy sand trapped his feet. He couldn’t shift them, couldn’t think, couldn’t
plan his next move.
And then the ground rippled beneath him, as if he stood on water like some long-legged bug and the water no longer wanted to support him.
He froze every muscle and gritted his teeth against the waving motion. His stomach tried to turn itself inside out. His eyes refused to focus, and his body wanted to become one with the water.
Arrows rained down upon his head. What could he do? No place to hide. No way to move.
Pain pierced his shoulder. He looked at the source, too stupefied to do anything else. Blood poured down his magician blue tunic, staining his new, brightly polished boots. He stared at them, aggrieved at the spoiling of the pristine leather.
But he didn’t have new boots. Marcus did. Why was he wearing Marcus’ boots? But these boots fit. He could barely get his foot inside the ones Marcus stole from the army.
He should throw a spell. What spell?
Sweat broke out on his brow and back. The pain in his shoulder doubled, bringing him to his knees.
Hot oil replaced the onslaught of arrows.
It burned his skin and hair. He held his hands and arms over his head, trying desperately to block the continuing deluge of boiling oil. His sweat turned icy. Blisters on his face and arms froze, burst, and peeled.
The new boots couldn’t protect his toes from the icy sand of the desert of Hanassa.
Bright light penetrated his eyes with blinding stabs. He looked up to see what new weapon the outlaws of Hanassa brought to bear.
Dark walls surrounded him. Only a single arrow slit window allowed light to escape Hanassa. The world around him turned to darkness. Intensely cold. An ancient cold born of evil.
Wild screams from above and below him blotted out coherency.
He huddled in on himself. All control of himself, his thoughts, his plans vanished. How could he make his own luck if he couldn’t think ahead? There had to be a way out of this mess. He couldn’t make it right.
A deep sob wrenched upward from his gut.
The sound of his own moan woke him. Only a hint of starlight penetrated his cell in the ancient monastery, keeping it in deep gloom. The storm had abated.
Vareena and her brother must have trudged home hours ago. They had promised to return to bury Farrell the next day. Robb and Marcus had tried an unsuccessful summons spell to Jaylor that left them exhausted and empty. Then they had selected rooms as far away from the scene of death as possible. They’d eaten their dinners in silence and retired.
Robb hadn’t traveled to Hanassa and been assaulted from all sides by unknown outlaws. He rotated his stiff shoulders. Chill and an awkward sleeping position plagued his muscles. An insect bite on his shoulder itched. That must have triggered the dream pain of a poisoned arrow wound.
He heaved a sigh of relief that sounded very much like a sob. He sat on the edge of the stone platform that formed his bed in the corner cell, bracing his elbows on his knees.
The dream had been so real. Almost like a dragon-dream. He shuddered. For years he’d heard stories of how the dragons could impose an illusion so convincing that healthy men wandered in circles for days, not eating or sleeping, ignoring the calls and pleas of friends and family to return, only to die of starvation with a smile on their faces. Always those tales had seemed apocryphal.
Now he wondered what he had done to anger a dragon.
But he wouldn’t have awakened from a dragon-dream.
Still shivering with memories of arrows and boiling oil, he called a ball a witchlight to hand and stumbled to the latrine. Best way to banish a nightmare.
Three spiders as large as the largest gold coin crunched under his boots between his cell and the corner latrine. He relished the squishy sound of their deaths. This, he could control.
But when he climbed beneath the blankets again, the dream returned. He forced himself awake and counted the stones in each wall, the floor, and ceiling for the rest of the night.
“I don’t love you anymore, Margit,” Marcus stated boldly.
The tall blonde stood before him, hands on hips, feet spread, mouth agape. The setting sun backlit her flowing tresses into a wild halo of indignation. And then she started throwing spells, fire, water, wind, dirt clods.
Marcus ducked, holding up his arms to shield his face. He tried to erect a barrier between himself and Margit’s fury. Magic dribbled from his fingers like the last dregs of old ale from the bottom of the barrel.
“Let me explain, Margit.” When magic deserted him, he always had words. He could charm the surliest of beldames into giving him a night’s shelter, a meal, or a tumble in the hay. “We’ve had some good times together. We’ve shared the secrets of magicians spying upon politicos and fanatic Gnuls. I was the liaison between you and Jaylor at the Commune of Magicians. But that wasn’t true love. You don’t truly love me any more than I love you.”
“Explain!” Margit hurled rocks with fists and magic. Only one landed at his feet. The others found her targets, his shoulders, his gut, his head. She’d had a lot of practice warding off ravens and jackdaws from her mother’s bakery cart in the market square. “Explain! You call that an explanation? What have you found this time? A more beautiful woman, a wealthier woman, a willing woman on the long, lonely nights in the middle of nowhere? I’ve heard all of your excuses before, Marcus. But this is the last one. I’ll kill you before I let another woman have you.”
From empty air she conjured metal throwing stars. She aimed their sharp points at his eyes.
His luck had definitely run out. No more could he count on Margit’s love and loyalty waiting for him in the capital when he returned.
Fierce, hot pain in his eyes and head jolted Marcus awake. Darkness surrounded him. Had Margit’s aim been true and blinded him? Sweat poured down his face and back. He rubbed at the biting pain in his temple and eye. Insect bites.
Gradually, the faint starlight filtered through the high window of his monastery cell. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he remembered where he was. He sighed heavily and brought a ball of cold witchlight to his hand.
“Just a nightmare. I still have my magic and my luck.” He rolled over and curled into his bedroll, seeking to warm the chill of sweat drying on his skin.
Images of Margit’s fury superimposed themselves on his mind every time he closed his eyes.
“I don’t love Margit. ’Tis Vareena who has captured my heart.” He tried to conjure her image before him, starting with her cloud of fair curls surrounding delicate features, frail frame, and serene demeanor.
Margit’s laugh and well-muscled strength kept trying to mask the pictures he held in his mind’s eye.
“I love Vareena. Tomorrow I’ll find a way out of here so that we can be together. Forever,” he repeated over and over again, until exhausted sleep finally claimed him.
CHAPTER 9
“Marcus, we’ve tried this before.” Robb sighed heavily.
“But we haven’t tried it this way,” Marcus replied. Eagerly he placed his right foot into a crevice in the outer wall. Then he reached for the first secure handhold with a show of confidence he didn’t really feel. They’d been trying to escape the old monastery all morning with no luck.
No luck. The words rang ominously around his head. He gritted his teeth and hauled himself up to find the next toehold. The chipped crevice he sought eluded him. As his balance teetered and his arms threatened to give way from the strain of holding his weight so precariously, he pressed his back against the gatehouse tower and wedged his body in the tight corner between it and the main curtain wall.
This would be easier if he’d slept better last night. Even after he’d banished the nightmare of Margit trying to kill him, he had not slept. Every time he’d turned over on the stone bench of a bed, the bed itself had seemed to roll and reshape itself to be more uncomfortable. Good fortune would never return until he escaped this cursed monastery.
From the looks of the deep shadows beneath Robb’s eyes, he hadn’t slept any better.
They had to get out of here. Today. Now.
“Your theory is flawed, Marcus. Whatever magical barrier holds us here is most thorough. Even the scattered ley lines within the courtyard do not reach the wall. They end abruptly and never do they cross. Our summons spell to Jaylor last night did not leave this complex. I think the thick cloud cover kept it within the walls. The confinement spell must have been constructed to surround the entire wall, not just the obvious exits and easily climbed points. Actually from the way you are bracing yourself there, I believe this to be the most obvious place for a climber to escape.” Robb droned on with his logical assessment of their predicament. He held his grounded staff so that the top made little circles at the end of each sentence.
“But Vareena comes and goes with her brother. Why them and not us?” Marcus returned. “She brought us food and blankets this morning. She talks to us. She sees us. But her brother doesn’t. Not once could I make eye contact with him while we dug Farrell’s grave. Why can Vareena and her brother leave and we can’t?” He didn’t add that he wanted to follow the lovely blonde. He’d follow her to the ends of the Kardia if he had to, giving up his dreams of a snug cottage and never wandering more than a few leagues from there ever again.
Margit’s image reared up before him. She’d never forgive him for deserting her. She’d hunt him down and kill him . . . No that was the nightmare. Margit might make life miserable for him, but she’d never . . . or would she?
He had a nagging feeling that his infamous good luck wouldn’t solve this problem for him.
But he had to have Vareena—He caressed the name in his mind as he climbed. Vareena needed his protection. She stood barely as tall as his shoulder. Her willowy figure looked too fragile to withstand a light breeze, let alone stand up to her strapping brother. And yet, from their conversations, Marcus gathered that the entire family of strong brothers and an implacable father listened and obeyed her. She’d remained a spinster to care for them.
The Wizard's Treasure (The Dragon Nimbus) Page 7